


Two Worlds Collided

by matrimus



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: M/M, merman link
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-04 02:21:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14582802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matrimus/pseuds/matrimus
Summary: Tired of life in the big city, Rhett takes to the open ocean. His solitude is sorely interrupted by the appearance of a merman, one who isn't too thrilled about finding himself caught in Rhett's fishing net.Mer!Link au





	Two Worlds Collided

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this tumblr post](http://arel-rhink.tumblr.com/post/171773486603/i-want-a-fanfic-where-link-is-the-merman-for) that asked for a fic with Link as the merman for a change. I loved the prompt so much that I couldn't help but give it a shot, and what better excuse to work on it now but MerMay?
> 
> Come chat to me over on [Tumblr](https://matrimus.tumblr.com)!

Out here, it’s easy to drift. The bitter bite of salt hangs in the air and the rhythmic hush of soft waves lap against the hull of his boat; Rhett breathes it in, ozone and sea-spray, the warmth of the sun beating down on his neck soothed by a breeze that carries the lazy call of gulls circling high above. He’s used to the sway of the boards below his feet by now, his steps smooth as he ducks beneath the cabin’s shade. The _Barbara_ is a small boat, barely tall enough to accommodate his considerable height, but for a large man, Rhett has never required much space. He’s content with a place to sleep and to work, to lay out on his back at night and watch the stars. There’d been no stars in the city, only the orange haze of pollution and the incessant flash of neon lights. Out here, he can count each one as he pleases, recite the names of the constellations he knows and give titles to those he doesn’t. There’s freedom in the roll of the ocean, a solitude that sings to his soul like a siren song of legend.

 

The wireless radio crackles as Rhett adjusts a series of dials, lingering on the news just long enough to catch a report of the weather – sunny skies and calm waters, whispers of a summer storm heading toward the west coast – before switching to his favourite music channel. The slow strum of an acoustic guitar fills the cabin, a lazy country beat that reminds him of home. Not the city; LA was never his home really, the smog of a thousand exhausts cloying his lungs, price tags and pretention and the press of too many bodies making his skin itch. No, this was North Carolina and the Cape Fear river, empty cow pastures and the dust of a dirt road kicked up in the wake of his bike’s wheels. He’d considered moving back there, back to the small town of Buies Creek, but the streets that stain his memories sepia aren’t the same that would greet him today. Too much has changed, a Starbucks on every corner now, his mom’s face filled with lines deeper than they had been last Thanksgiving. He’d soon come to realise that it wasn’t the place itself he missed, rather the point in time he’d lived there – lazy teenage days spent skimming rocks across the river, drumming his hands on the steering wheel to Merle Haggard tapes as he’d picked a direction and drove for the sunset. The daily grind of adulthood would continue now whether he opened the drapes on the bustle of LA or the quiet streets of North Carolina. The suit and tie of an engineering job had never fit him well, the desire to shrug free of corporate shackles and work with his hands, with _nature_ , a lingering ache that reached deep inside his bones. He’d craved isolation, and the open ocean had given it to him in spades, nothing but the rise and fall of the sun on the horizon and the crackle of his radio to keep him company.

 

A calendar pinned to the frame above his bunk counts the four months since he’d first set sail, a gift from his mom depicting colourful cartoons of mythical sea creatures. Rhett reaches over to cross off another day in a fat strike of red pen, his eyes falling on the latest care package open at the food of his cot. Tins of beans and packs of cookies rest inside amidst fresh socks and a jumble of toiletries. Diane McLaughlin still insists on sending them all the way from North Carolina despite Rhett’s half-hearted instance she stop, ready to collect from San Pedro port each time he docks. He never stays long, giving himself just enough time to sell the fish he’s caught and the junk he’s collected, before stocking up on essentials and setting sail again. The temptation to travel across the world certainly lingers in his heart, but with each package of treats and hand-written letters he receives, it slackens its grip. His voluntary isolation is a carefully constructed fantasy after all, the option to return to port only ever a day’s journey away. Severing the ties of his former life completely is too much to imagine, even for a man more comfortable in the presence of his own shadow than other people.

 

Grabbing a foil packet of cookies from the care package, Rhett slips a pair of sunglasses over his eyes and steps out onto the deck once again. It’s mid-afternoon, the hottest time of the day, and the fish aren’t biting. He tugs the taut ropes of the net draped over the side of his boat, testing its weight. Nothing; the water ripples, clear and inviting, a handful of silver-white fish darting away from the movement. It’s almost _too_ calm, the air sluggish and thick, Rhett’s deckchair creaking beneath his weight as he takes a seat and tears into a corner of the foil with his teeth. It’s not always this easy; storms are quick to appear this far out, the waves sometimes climbing so high they rain down on his head and rock the boat like a toy in a bathtub. He’s had to pail water from the cabin more than once already, learning quickly to stabilise anything of any real importance as well as keep valuables up off the floor. He’d narrowly avoided hitting a reef that would have torn a hole through the side of his boat, and watched more than one huge, ominous shadow glide curiously beneath _Barbara’s_ keel. Various _Jaws_ quotes had filtered through his head in those moments, though the sharks have always passed him by with little more than cursory glances and a nudge of powerful fins.  

 

Still, lazy days mean unproductive ones, his stock of fresh fish dwindling. The addition of a gas stove in the cabin means he won’t go hungry thanks to the tinned food in his cupboards, but the pressure to keep on top of his supply remains a nagging worry at the back of his mind. The beauty of catching his own food has always appealed to him, his dad teaching him how to hunt and fish back when he was a boy. His survivalist nature had seen him hoarding tinned food in a box in the garage before he could ride a bike, a flashlight held steady beneath the sheets of his bed as he sat up late researching the potential of the zombie apocalypse. Learning the uses of a swiss army knife and how to operate rainwater collection systems had certainly prepared him for a life on the ocean, though each day was still a sharp learning curve.

 

Rhett chews idly on a cookie, face tipped upward toward the sun. He doesn’t need to look in a mirror to know his freckles are out in full force, a burst of red across the bare expanse of his shoulders like paint flicked from the bristles of a brush. He’d tanned quickly after long hours spent beneath the sun’s rays, grateful for the suntan lotion Diane had thoughtfully included in his first care package. The blond streaks of his hair and beard are far brighter out here than they had been back in the city, both growing far thicker without a boss to tell him to keep things neat. He likes to think he looks the part of a fisherman by now, his hands weathered and his cheeks red from the salted air, but knows realistically that he’ll always be a little soft around the edges in comparison to those who’d spent their entire lives on the water. California has affected him more than he cares to admit, the tropical board shorts and flip flops he still wears at least one testament to the beach lifestyle he can’t quite shake. Still, he feels more comfortable, more like _himself_ , than he has since he was a teen. He belongs here, drifting on the tide, alone save for his thoughts and the fish.

 

Something wet slaps against the hull of his ship, startling Rhett from his daydreams. Jerking his head up, he peers over the top of his sunglasses toward the fishnet; it shudders, ropes pulling taut, another slap throwing up a spray of glittering seawater. He’s heard the noise enough to recognise it by now, knows it’s the sound of struggling fins thrashing against the snare. Whatever he’s caught, it sounds big. Rhett’s stomach flutters at the thought of untangling a shark from the net, wondering whether he can justify cutting the entire thing loose if he has to. A fisherman he may be, but a killer he is not; he wouldn’t dream of pulling something as endangered as a leopard shark onto his boat, no matter the price he might get for such a prize catch.

 

Rhett’s hands curl around the wooden railing as he peers down into the dark water below. The surface shimmers, choppy from earlier movement, though Rhett can’t make anything out beyond the dark shape of the fishing net. Maybe the shark – or whatever it had been – has managed to free itself without his help? Rhett purses his lips, absently tugging the ropes once again. It barely moves, anchored heavily in place. Whatever he’s caught, it’s still there.

 

His heart skipping a beat, Rhett dusts cookie crumbs from his hands and wraps them firmly around the pulley mechanism used to hoist the net over the side of the boat. He cranks it up, the hiss of cascading water barely covering another loud thump somewhere below the boat. The surface rocks with the movement, smaller fish slipping from the netting to splash back into the ocean; the hook soon appears above the railing, beads of sweat beginning to form on Rhett’s forehead from the exertion.

 

Mentally preparing himself for the struggle of freeing a flailing shark without getting bitten or slapped in the face by a fin, Rhett doesn’t notice the human hand tangled in the netting until there’s an entire forearm lifting over the railing. Rhett’s stomach immediately drops somewhere cold and nauseous, the pulley falling slack.

 

The skin of the trapped hand is entirely blue, the cold, mottled shade of dead flesh. Even the nails are blue, the bones of the wrist delicate and sharp. _Shit_ – he’s snagged a dead body, presumably some drowned surfer or sailor. Rhett’s stomach lurches as he wracks his memory for any news reports of a missing person, any shark attack victims or sunken boats in the area. He can’t recall any, though judging by the colour, this poor guy has been out here for some time. Shouldn’t he have… _decayed_ more by now? It’s an unsettling thought, and Rhett steels his stomach as he cranks the net higher, stopping when a head and shoulders breech the railing. Is it just the sunlight playing tricks, or is the man’s hair a deep shade of blue too, so dark it seems black at first glance? The bare skin of his back is the colour of the sky early morning – eggshell blue, he thinks the shade is called, though it seems far too pretty a name for dead flesh.

 

The man’s forehead rests against the net, obscuring his face, his free arm hanging limp. Is this what all dead bodies look like, or at least the drowned ones? It’s not what he’d expected – Rhett sucks a deep breath and extends a hand, ready to keep the body anchored as he pulls the netting onboard.

 

The moment his fingers meet cool skin, the man’s head snaps up.

 

Rhett yelps, stumbling backward and tripping over his chair. His backside hits the deck with a thud, long legs splayed gracelessly as he scrambles across the slick boards, only stopping when his shoulders come into contact with the starboard railing. The man mirrors his gasp of surprise, free hand tugging desperately at the knots keeping his wrist tethered in place. Wide eyes watch Rhett warily from beneath a mop of wet hair – which is _definitely_ blue now Rhett can take a longer moment to gape at it – and when the man shakes it back from his forehead, Rhett feels his world narrow at the sight of pointed, fin-like ears protruding from the sides of his head. The man winces as the netting digs deeper into his wrist, his struggling only succeeding in wrapping more of the rope around his forearm. A gasp of pain pushes Rhett into motion, determination overriding his earlier surprise.

 

Struggling to his feet, Rhett ignores the wild hammering of his heart as he steps cautiously closer.

 

“Hey…” he keeps his tone soft, palms up in a display of peace. “It’s okay, man, you’re safe. Let me just… I’ll get you out of there, hold on.”

 

The man clings desperately to the net, and though his lower body is obscured by the railing of the boat, Rhett can see his hips twist as though struggling to move his legs. Maybe his ankles are caught in the netting too? _Crap_ – Rhett bites his lip, his heart sinking; he’s so going to get sued for this.

 

Grabbing the handle of the pulley system, Rhett continues to babble as he cranks it higher.

 

“Jeez, man, what’re you doing this far out on your own? Did your boat capsize or something? I’m sorry for… well, for catching you in the net but, _shit_ , it’s probably a good thing I did. You look _freezing_. I’ll get you free and take you back to shore, okay? Don’t worry, everything’s –”

 

The net lifts entirely free of the water, and Rhett’s brain whirs to a stuttering halt.

 

Where his legs should have been, the man’s lower body blends into a long, fish-like tail. There’s no clear transition from skin to scales, though the light blue colouring of his upper body gradually deepens to a deep cobalt from his belly button to the tips of his pointed fins. Stripes of silver decorate the scales of his hips, deeper shades of blue slashing his ribs and collar bones. His tail glitters in the bright sunlight, sluicing water as it flaps uselessly in the air. From this elevated height, Rhett can see that the netting is indeed tangled around the thinner section of his tail just above the feather-like spread of his fins, the skin there rubbed raw and oozing what appears to be blue blood. Rhett watches a heavy droplet fall to the surface of the water, ripples spreading as the blood blooms like ink, and wonders if he’s going to faint. Only a second gasp of pain from the man focuses him enough to keep him upright, though he remains frozen in place with his hands still wrapped around the crank.

 

A merman. He’s caught a fucking _merman_ in his fishing net.

 

Mechanically, his head turns toward the cabin. From here, Rhett can see the mythological beast calendar pinned to his bunk. It’s open on June, the picture showing a female mermaid with a (likely intentional) resemblance to Ariel seated on a rock, brushing her red hair and smiling. Rhett almost laughs, something wild and half crazed bubbling at the back of his throat. He must be dreaming, or else suffering some kind of sea-borne illness. Maybe he’s finally snapped and gone mad, the isolation both a blessing and a curse on his mental state? Or maybe he’s slipped and cracked his head open on the mast, and these visions are simply something his dying brain has cooked up as he tumbles into oblivion? The merman jerks his fins in a spasm of pain, blue blood and saltwater streaking Rhett’s face. It certainly feels real – the breeze on his skin and the sun’s warmth on his neck, the drum of his heart and the sweat trickling a path down his spine – but how can it be? _Mermen_ _aren’t real_.

 

“I… who…” words fail him as Rhett edges closer, mesmerised by the powerful muscle he can see layered beneath the merman’s scales. He needs to pull the net over the railing before he can lower it, though he doesn’t relish the idea of being body-slammed by the creature’s fin. He raises his hands again, unsurprised to see them shake. “I need to pull you onboard before I can free you. Don’t freak out; I’m not going to hurt you.”   

 

The merman doesn’t seem to understand, or else doesn’t care, wriggling harder as Rhett curls his hands into the net and drags it over the rail. His fin whips against Rhett’s cheek, far sharper than it looks, though Rhett uses the adrenaline to push his shoulders into winding the crank and lowering the net – and the merman – to the deck. Their eyes meet, both of them stationary for a breathless moment before the merman begins to truly panic, fin slapping heavily against the boards as the fingers of his free hand tear at the netting.

 

Rhett drops to his knees, wary of the thrashing tail. He inches closer. “I’m going to help you, okay? Try and stay –”

 

The merman snaps his teeth at the hand Rhett had been stretching toward him, sharp canines flashing as he fixes Rhett with a snarl. Rhett immediately pulls his hand back before he loses a finger. Okay, change of plan. Maybe if he gets the merman’s tail free first, he might trust him enough to let Rhett free his wrist? It’s worth a shot.

 

There’s no way Rhett can use his hands to untangle the knots wrapped around the merman’s tail; the thrashing has only succeeded in twisting them tighter, saltwater and tough rope a daunting combination. Rhett reaches into the pockets of his board shorts and pulls out his swiss army knife. He holds it up for the merman to see, keeping his tone at what he hopes is a low, soothing level.

 

“I’m going to use this to cut you free,” he explains, the merman’s eyes narrowed as they scan the unopened blade warily. “You don’t need to be afraid. Just hold still.”

 

He flicks the blade, and the merman lets out a high-pitched cry of fear, immediately resuming its wild squirming. Rhett grits his teeth determinedly and grasps a handful of the netting, his fingers brushing the merman’s tail as he starts hacking at the knots surrounding the trapped appendage. It doesn’t feel like a fish’s scales, smooth and surprisingly warm beneath the pads of his fingers. The knots loosen and finally fall apart, and Rhett quickly sits back as the merman wrenches loose. The wounds ringing his tail look deep, raw and raised, though the merman pays them little attention as he whips his fin toward Rhett. Rhett barely manages to duck in time, hearing more than feeling the whoosh of air pass over his head.

 

“ _Hey_! Watch it, man, I’m only trying to help!” He huffs, ignoring the fact that he wouldn’t _need_ to help if he hadn’t accidentally caught the guy in his net in the first place. The merman stops trying to swat at him, his brow pulled into a deep frown. He looks confused, angry, and more than a little terrified. Has he ever seen a human being before? Rhett can’t help but wonder if humans are the subject of myth and legend to mermen, though the idea seems ridiculous. There are humans everywhere, even out here in the middle of the ocean. Perhaps this is simply this merman’s first time meeting one? Rhett has to wince at that – he’s probably ruined the poor guy’s impression of humankind in the space of five minutes.

 

Swallowing thickly, Rhett hesitantly holds out the knife. The merman stops thrashing, glancing between Rhett’s face and the blade and back again, suspicious and calculating. Rhett moves it closer, insistent.

 

“C’mon, take it. You can cut yourself free.”

 

The merman’s shoulders lift on a series of quick breaths before he darts forward, bending at the waist to snatch the knife and hold it protectively against his chest. He waits, checking to see if Rhett plans on making a second move, before clumsily slotting the blade beneath the netting trapping his wrist. Rhett watches, his lips dry as the merman rips the net apart, slicing his skin at least twice in the process. Once he’s finally freed himself completely, he drops the knife with a clatter and falls back onto the palms of his hands, using his tail to shimmy himself as far away as possible. He’s quicker than Rhett expects, sliding easily over the slick decking like a seal.

 

The merman’s eyes dart to the open portion of the railing where the gangplank would rest when docking the boat, and Rhett can only sit back in stunned silence as the creature all but slithers across the deck and drops down into the water with a loud splash. There’s a streak of blue blood seeping into the wood, more of it pooled beneath the ruined mess of his net. Rhett carefully avoids it as he crawls to the gate, though the merman is nowhere to be seen.

 

It’s only then that Rhett realises how badly he’s shaking, his entire body humming with involuntary chills. He flops back, pressing himself against the railing as he drags the palms of his hands down over his face. There’s no point in calling the coast guard – who the hell would believe him, weird blue blood or no weird blue blood? He’d be the laughing stock of California if the story broke out, the crazy southern guy who thought he could handle life on the open ocean. Would the other fishermen believe him? Surely someone, somewhere, had to have seen a merperson before. Rhett can’t help but silently curse the lack of wifi this far out; maybe Google would have held some of the answers, or at least help him seek out people who wouldn’t laugh in his face upon hearing his story.

 

Somewhere below him, the surface of the water breaks with a loud crash, followed closely by something scratching against the side of his boat. Rhett’s pulse thunders in his ears as he sticks his head through the gate, immediately finding himself face to face with the merman again. The man’s eyes are wide and impossibly blue, fear and pain etched in the twist of his mouth. He’s breathing heavily, spitting water from his lips as his hands scramble for purchase on the slippery wall of the boat. Blue blood pillows in the water around him, a thin trickle sliding the length of his wrist to smear across _Barbara’s_ pristine hull.

 

Why isn’t he swimming away? He clearly doesn’t want to be there, the fear in his eyes as they lock with Rhett’s own clear as crystal. His fin is injured, sure, but doesn’t he have an underwater castle somewhere he can go to heal? The merman spits another mouthful of water, fighting to stay above the surface. Understanding slowly dawns, Rhett’s eyes widening with the revelation.

 

The merman can’t breathe underwater. It has to be that; there are no gills on the merman’s body that Rhett can see, no visible way for him to filter the water as he swims. He’s a mammal, like a dolphin or a seal, or a _human_. It’s likely he can hold his breath for far longer than Rhett can, but he needs air to survive just as much as Rhett does. And with his injured fin, he can’t swim far enough to reach the safety of wherever it is that he hides.

 

The merman’s fingers curl around the deck, and Rhett feels a pang of guilt lance through his chest at the sight of a tear rolling slowly down the man’s cheek. He shakes his head with a resolute breath, gathering himself onto all fours as he delicately places his hand over the merman’s own.

 

“Shh, it’s okay. You don’t have to be afraid of me.” Emboldened when the merman doesn’t jerk away from his touch, Rhett lets his hand slip tentatively downward to circle his wrist. The skin there feels the same as any human’s, cool from the seawater and dusted with damp hair. He tugs carefully, showing the merman he is welcome to come aboard if he wishes. “Why don’t you come up here, hm?”

 

The merman doesn’t respond verbally, though his fingers hesitantly wrap around Rhett’s wrist. His injured hand grips the edge of the deck, and Rhett shifts his weight to his knees as he tugs the merman up and out of the water. He’s heavy, far heavier than a regular human, and Rhett collapses back as the merman flops onto the deck. They both take a moment to catch their breath, the merman’s chest rising and falling rapidly before he shudders and curls in on himself, both hands reaching down toward his tail. Rhett forces himself to unsteady feet, conscious of the merman’s wary eyes on him.

 

“I’ve got a first aid kit in the cabin. You just have to trust me.” Not an easy request, he knows, but one the merman will have little choice but to follow if he doesn’t want to get an infection. Rhett digs through the cabin’s cupboards until he finds the rectangular box beneath the bunk, popping it open as he approaches the merman and folds carefully to his knees.

 

He holds up a packet of gauze and alcohol swabs for the merman’s inspection. “I’m going to clean this up and bandage you, okay?” He nods toward the merman’s fin, which flops sadly in response. “Don’t… don’t hit me in the face or anything. It’s going to sting, but I’ll be quick.”

 

The merman flinches when Rhett’s hands curl around him, lifting his tail off the deck and into his lap. Rhett’s head swims at the absurdity of the situation. If someone had told him yesterday that he’d be patching up an honest-to-god _merman_ out in the middle of nowhere, he’d have called them crazy. Maybe he _is_ crazy – a part of him still expects the merman to shatter like glass at any moment, his fragile grip on reality slipping completely. The merman blinks at him, sharp teeth digging into his lower lip, and Rhett knows he’s not dreaming.

 

Tearing open the alcohol strips, Rhett immediately gets a faceful of powerful fin as the merman hisses and tries to jerk away from the pain. He holds on, hands shaking as he wraps the bandages as tightly as he dares. They’ll stop the blood, at least, and protect the wound from any bacteria that may call the deck of his boat home. The merman stills once the wrappings are in place, tentatively flexing his fins.

 

“See? Not the monster you thought, right?” Rhett offers a small smile, softening the merman’s glare slightly. He doesn’t smile in return, though he doesn’t flinch quite so much when Rhett takes his injured wrist in his hand.

 

“Do you have a name?” It’s unclear if the merman understands the words, his eyes guarded as they lock with Rhett’s own. Rhett carefully cleans his presented wrist, glad to see that the wounds there are superficial. He continues talking, hoping at least that some of what he’s saying is getting through.

 

“I’m Rhett. _Rhett_.” He taps his chest, enunciating the name far more than he normally would when introducing himself. “What should I call you, huh? You don’t look like an Ariel to me.”

 

The merman’s lips twist at that, and if Rhett didn’t know any better, he’d swear he understood the reference. The merman inspects his bandaged hand quietly, before drawing a breath and lifting his chin defiantly.

 

“Link,” he breathes, his voice low and oddly melodic. “My name’s Link.”  


End file.
